


First Blood

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood Eagle, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mentions of Rape, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: Ragnar takes Athelstan to Wessex for his first raid. His axe christened with the blood of his countrymen, Athelstan must reflect on what his friendship with Ragnar has forced him to become and whether he can allow it to continue. Ragnar gifts his priest an arm ring, marking him among his trusted men, on equal footing with any other. With it he asks Athelstan to make a choice, but he isn't sure he wants to hear the answer.Non-con warning references a mention of rape in the second chapter
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: So, this was supposed to be a one-shot. But then the fic kind of got away from me and ended up being much longer than I anticipated. So here is part one of two. It's mostly canon compliant, but I did skip Ragnar's visit to the Seer and the waffling back and forth over whether he should execute Jarl Borg or let him live to avoid scaring off potential allies.
> 
> Briefly references a conversation that took place in my other fic, Mercy. However, it is not necessary to read one to understand the other
> 
> Hope you enjoy it. As always, any feedback is always greatly appreciated!
> 
> ~Anges

He leans over the edge of the boat, undeterred by the spray of saltwater soaking his clothes—a far cry from the monk who’d once crouched upon the deck, shivering and miserable. Ragnar itches to grab him and pull him back. Instead, he drapes an arm around the Saxon’s shoulders and gives him an indulgent grin. “We’ll reach shore soon enough, Priest.”

Athelstan doesn’t look at him. Blue eyes stare at the growing shoreline, transfixed. The smile that splits his face is the biggest and brightest Ragnar has ever seen on him andhHe’s not sure he likes it. “That eager to be off the water?” He feels something unfamiliar coiling in the pit of his stomach—is this what fear feels like?

“I thought I’d never see it again.”

“What? Land?” Ragnar is deliberately obtuse. “I’d think you’d have more faith in me than that.” And yet somehow the notion that Athelstan thought him incapable of finding land stings less than the truth he refuses to acknowledge. His own smile fades as he turns his eyes to the shore, unable to bear the sight of the unbridled joy on his friend’s face.

“England.”

Paired with any other word, the hushed breathlessness of the priest’s voice would have been utterly endearing. But now part of him just wants to smack that stupid, awe-struck look off his priest’s face. He doesn’t. But he wants to.

Really, England isn’t so special, aside from its churches that are both incredibly rich and wonderfully poorly guarded.

And yet… Perhaps it’s just Ragnar’s imagination, but the moment his priest’s feet hit the sand, he seems to stand a bit taller and breathe just a little easier. As he takes in the landscape hungrily as a starving man sat before a feast, Ragnar hears him breathe a Saxon word that sounds suspiciously like, “Beautiful.”

A bird freed from his cage.

The Northman’s expression turns sour. “If you’re done gawking, perhaps you’d like to help us set up camp.” Athelstan’s eyes narrow, but Ragnar pretends not to see it. Instead, he turns to Floki and says loud enough for his priest to hear, “You’d think he’d never seen a beach before.”

The boatbuilder snickers. The joy fades from Athelstan’s face and they both watch as he finds a use for himself away from their jeering.

He works in silence. But when he thinks no one is watching, he looks around furtively, drinking in the landscape. Ragnar can see the anticipation—the eagerness to venture away from the shore and see more. So he resolves to find as much work as he can for the Saxon around their camp.

His priest isn’t going anywhere.

Athelstan looks up immediately when Ragnar announces his intention to lead an exploratory party further inland. “I’d like to volunteer.”

“No.”

“Ragnar—”

“No,” the Northman repeats. “We’ve no idea what we could be walking into and you’ve yet to fight in a shield wall. I need men I can count on.”

There’s a crease in the priest’s brow and his lips thin, the way they always do when he’s trying to bite his tongue. He has an iron grip on his emotions and rarely ever fails to restrain himself. In the moment, Ragnar hates that about him. More, he hates what it says that Athelstan can’t seem to contain his excitement to be in England.

“You’re to stay here, where you won’t be a liability.”

The Saxon wants to argue. Ragnar can see it in the way his shoulders have grown tense and the twitch in his jaw. There’s real anger in those blue eyes—something Ragnar hasn’t seen directed at him in some time now. It’s gratifying. At least in that it’s replaced that stupid, wide-eyed wonder. He knows now that he ought to have left Athelstan in Kattegat, but he won’t blunder again by allowing him to stray any further onto English soil than he has to.

“Fine.”

Still, his priest doesn’t lash out. He stays on the beach, watching Ragnar and his men leave with eyes full of reproach.

Ragnar is distracted. He can’t afford to be, and yet he is. They head into the trees to take the measure of where they’ve landed. He should be taking in their surroundings. But that _fucking word_ replays itself again and again.

_Beautiful_

As he looks around, he maintains that there’s nothing so very special about a beach and some trees.

He should have heard the footsteps of soldiers approaching. He doesn’t until it’s too late and the battle is already upon them. His voice rises above the clatter of shields and swords as he barks commands. Bodies press close together as men raise their shields in a wall while others among them strike out at the Saxon soldiers.

As blood wets his axe and flecks his face, Ragnar gives a wolfish grin. The shield wall breaks and he welcomes the disruption that gives him more freedom to move—more access to English blood. He fights like a man possessed, eyes ablaze with love of the kill. He is reckless and takes unnecessary risks and perhaps in hindsight he may recognize that, but in the moment he feels more himself than he has since his feet touched land. The Saxons are weak. Death by his hand is an honor of which they can never hope to be worthy, but it is one he will bestow all the same, because Ragnar is a generous man.

These men are even less remarkable than the land they inhabit.

Caught in the haze of bloodlust, he doesn’t see a soldier approach from the left, nor does he hear the footsteps coming from behind.

“Ragnar!”

A familiar voice—a voice that shouldn’t be there—shouts his name. An axe lodges itself in the chest of the Saxon who would have killed him. In the moment there is no hesitation. His priest looks just as much Viking as any of the men around him, not as seasoned but no less earnest in the defense of his fellows.

He is followed by others, drawn from camp by the sound of battle.

Their forces bolstered, the small party of Saxons becomes easy to repel. There will be others—those who escaped will no doubt tell their king of the Northmen’s arrival. But for now, the battle is won.

It is then, as the adrenaline fades, that the dawn of realization comes. Ragnar sees his priest stare at the reddened blade of his axe, and then look from the bodies littering the field to Ragnar’s men rounding up survivors to take to their camp as captives. He drops the axe as if it’s a viper and retreats, unable to stand the sight a moment longer.

Ragnar follows.

He finds the priest seated on a fallen tree, head in his hands. He’s trembling. When Ragnar sits beside him, he jumps up like a frightened cat, bearing striking resemblance to the anxious, timid slave he’d been when Ragnar first brought him to Kattegat. The difference is while he is startled, the fear doesn’t last. Almost immediately, his lips twist into an uncharacteristic sneer. “If you’ve come to scold me, I don’t want to hear it.” There’s something strained, just about ready to snap, in his voice.

“Priest—”

“No. Just…” He draws in a breath and licks his lips, wincing at the unpleasant, metallic tang of the blood he’d not yet wiped away. It seems to renew the anger he’s trying so hard to quell, as he runs a hand through his hair and turns his head away. “I want to be alone. Please.”

“You saved my life today.” The admission doesn’t come easily to the Northman who has never liked to acknowledge his own vulnerability. “Do you regret it?” It comes as an unpleasant surprise that rather than gentle teasing, the question is quite sincere.

“No,” his priest answers immediately. “I…” He exhales heavily and still will not look at Ragnar. “It’s just…” He stops, trying to gather his thoughts. He has never been one to speak without first figuring out what, exactly, it is he wants to say. “You have no idea what it meant,” he says slowly. “Just to be here. To see the home I thought I’d lost forever.”

Ragnar scowls. He wants to tell his priest that he has a new home now, but he manages to bite his tongue. For now, anyway. He sits and waits for Athelstan to continue.

“Now I’ve realized.” Finally, he turns back to Ragnar, meeting his eyes. “You’ve brought me back as her enemy.” The accusation there is undeniable. The Northman feels himself bristling against it, but for now he still manages to hold his tongue—perhaps through the intervention of the gods. “He was just trying to defend his home, and I killed him for it. For _you_. And I… I regret it, but at the same time I _don’t_.”

Cautiously, Ragnar rests a hand on the priest’s shoulder, his frown deepening as Athelstan immediately ducks away from him. “You did what was necessary.”

A bitter scoff is enough to tell him that Athelstan doesn’t care for his explanation.

“I’ve lost myself, Ragnar. I don’t know who I am anymore, and I… I just need to think.” He blinks against the wetness in his eyes—he’s always resisted crying in front of Ragnar if he could help it.

Ragnar takes a ring from his arm and turns it over in his hands, scrutinizing it. His brow knits together and a long moment passes in silence as he thinks. “Do you remember what you said to me when I offered you freedom after Earl Haraldson’s funeral?”

Athelstan leans forward and presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, closing his eyes. “Ragnar, please.”

“You refused,” he continues. “Do you remember why?”

“It’s a wonder you do,” Athelstan retorts. “You never seem to hear me I speak.”

“Athelstan—”

“ _Please_ , Ragnar!” He draws in a shuddering breath. “Please. Whatever this is, we’ll talk later. But I just… I can’t do it right now. Please.”

Ragnar takes a breath, prepared to argue. Instead, he sighs, “Alright. Later.”

He returns the ring to his arm and stands to leave. He doesn’t go far—there may still be Saxon soldiers in the area, and he doesn’t think it wise to leave Athelstan on his own. But he retreats at least far enough to give his friend the illusion of privacy. He pretends not to hear the sounds of Athelstan retching or the anguished prayers punctuated by muffled sobs.

When he hears his priest stand, he makes his own way back to camp, determined to make it back first. That way they can both pretend he had been there the entire time.

He sits by the fire to join the celebration over their victory, but his heart isn’t in it. His eyes rarely ever leave the line of trees and he wonders why it’s taking Athelstan so long to find his way back. He’s about to go looking for him when he finally sees the Saxon emerge. His shoulders are hunched and his steps are slow and heavy.

As he settles himself in as secluded a spot as he can manage, Ragnar regrets the way he’d resented the ease in the man’s bearing when they’d first come ashore.

Perhaps he should wait. But he won’t for fear his resolve will not last. He tries not to see the grimace or the way the other man seems to sag with resignation as he approaches, much the same way he chooses not to notice the redness of his eyes.

“What is it, Ragnar?” He sounds exhausted, his voice flat and devoid of its usual spark.

“It’s later.”

Athelstan sighs, but gestures for Ragnar to go on.

Taking the seat beside him, he picks up where he’d begun earlier. “After Earl Haraldson’s funeral, I offered to free you, and you refused. Do you remember why?”

The priest can’t keep the annoyance from his tone. “Because it was just part of a game, and it didn’t actually change anything. Because I mean nothing to you.”

Ragnar flinches. “Because _it_ _meant_ nothing to me, you said,” he corrects quietly. He heaves a sigh of his own. He ought to just brush it off and move on, but he can’t. “Is that truly what you think? That you mean nothing to me?”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m tired. I misspoke.”

Athelstan is a terrible liar.

Once again, he removes a ring from his arm, and very gently, he takes the priest’s hand and slides it onto his wrist. “This means something. You are your own man, Athelstan, on equal footing with everyone else here.” He swallows thickly. “When our business here is concluded, I would like for you to leave with us. But this time, if you make the voyage from England to Kattegat, it is to be of your own accord, as a free man.”

Athelstan jerks his hand away and takes off the arm ring. He’s not sure what he expected, but he’s unprepared for the anger in his priest’s eyes as he lifts them from the ground. “Why are you doing this? Why now, Ragnar?” He gives a bitter laugh. “Is it because you know I can’t? I’ve killed their soldiers. It isn’t really a choice at all, is it?”

“It is,” Ragnar insists. “It is only an offer, Athelstan. That is all it is. And I am not asking you to choose right now. Just… Wear it for now, and if you decide you don’t want it…” He pauses, offering a somewhat sad smile. “I will take it back, and I’m sure we can make you look a very convincing runaway slave and a little information will buy you safe passage. Whatever you wish, it will be honored. I swear it on my own arm ring.”

The priest scrutinizes the ring in his hand. Slowly, he places it on his wrist. “Thank you, Ragnar.”

It pains the Northman that he can’t tell whether the thanks is sincere. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.”

Athelstan allows Ragnar to drape an arm around his shoulders and they sit together in silence. It isn’t the easy, companionable silence they often shared beside the fire in the evenings, but rather a heavy and somber weight that settles over their shoulders. Something between them is still broken.

It remains so as they move inland.

Ragnar sees the longing on his priest’s face as he takes in the landscape and he can’t miss his anguish when they reach a town. Athelstan falls back and Ragnar loses sight of him. The town’s defenses are meager at best. Most of the villagers are hiding and the few soldiers stand little chance. Ragnar keeps an eye out, but does not see his priest engage. Instead, the more seasoned among them make short work of the Saxons, clearing the path to the monastery.

When he sees Athelstan again, it is at the doors of the monastery. He’s stopped dead in his tracks. He looks over his shoulder and for a moment Ragnar thinks he might run, but screams from inside usher him in. One of Horik’s men has a blade pressed to the throat of monk. “Where’ve you hidden the treasure?”

The floor is already stained red with the blood of other Christians as they ransack the church.

“Stop! I know where it is.”

His voice is inaudible above the shouting, and even were it not so, Ragnar doubts any would have listened. It his own snarl that calls a momentary halt.

“I know where it is,” he repeats breathlessly.

Ragnar watches as he walks to the altar. His back is painfully straight, his gait stilted and stiff, as if each step causes him pain that he’s trying to hide. He stops just before the altar, lips twisting into a grimace. He draws in a deep breath, steeling himself, before he steps on it and lays a hand on the table. “It will be hidden under here.”

He turns away as the Holy Table is broken to pieces and the relics below set upon as if by magpies. Gold and silver is plundered and the sacred bones of saints tossed aside as trash. Ragnar rests a hand on his shoulder, giving it what he means to be a comforting squeeze.

Athelstan doesn’t pull away, but neither does he seem pleased. At the very least, they have what they came for and the violence should be over.

Should.

Were it up to Ragnar, it would have been. But Horik and his men crave blood and their thirst is not yet quenched. They fan out to search the rest of the area, slaughtering any in their path. Athelstan watches. For a moment, his jaw goes slack and his face sickly pale as he is unable to tear his eyes away from the massacre about to unfold. But finally, he flees.

Ragnar doesn’t follow. Instead, he conducts his own search for anything else that might be worth their time. The slaughter is senseless, but he can at least see the wisdom in making sure they have not overlooked anything they ought not to leave behind. Besides, he doubts he will be of much use to his priest in the moment. He has never shied away from the harsh realities of their way of life, but this is excessive even to his eyes.

As he walks the grounds, he sees a pair of boys cowering beneath. He raises a finger to his lips, and then pulls a blanket from the bench, draping it so they might be better concealed.

The road to Valhalla is not paved with the blood of frighten and unarmed children.

Seeing nothing more of value here, he returns to the church. Athelstan has returned as well.

His face is ashen and he stares transfixed in horror at a man apprehended by Horik’s warriors. The priest of Winchester has been stripped of his vestments and bound to a column before the crowd. For the first time, Ragnar sees them as Athelstan must—a mob of howling, blood thirsty savages. This, he sees no cause for. And yet Horik is his king, and if these are his orders Ragnar cannot interfere.

Floki whoops and cackles, dark eyes alight with cruel delight. He takes the bow and draws back. An arrow pierces the priest’s leg and pulls a cry from the captive. Another lodges itself in his shoulder.

Athelstan turns to him. “Ragnar, please.” He speaks in the Saxon tongue, unintelligible to the other men. Not that it matters—the words are nearly inaudible. But Ragnar doesn’t need to hear, he can read it in the crease of Athelstan’s brow and the irregular rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. For Athelstan’s sake, he wants to put an end to it, but his hands are tied. He can do nothing but watch as they shoot their captive not to kill, but only to wound.

Finally, Athelstan can take no more. Ragnar moves to stop him, but he’s not fast enough and his priest positions himself between the archers and their target. His eyes are dry and utterly defiant as he stares them down. He draws a knife and turns to the captive priest. “I’m sorry.”

Ragnar strains to hear and catches snatches of the language he recognizes as the one Athelstan uses to pray. He curses the man for a fool, but at least none of the other men seem able to distinguish between this and the language of the Saxons. His muttering stops and he cuts the man’s throat to end his suffering.

Hands stained crimson, he stops a moment to look around the ruined church before storming out.

Floki’s eyes follow his priest and Ragnar knows that this will not be the end of the matter. The boatbuilder is a valued friend, but he makes sport of Christian deaths in a way Ragnar doesn’t understand. He will not be pleased to have had his fun cut short.

He watches him go, an unfamiliar weight settling on his chest. It’s for the best he’d given Athelstan his arm ring the previous night—he knows that now, after Athelstan has witnessed what he has, he would not have been able to make his offer, because he would have already known the priest’s decision. He aches to follow him, but he remains in the church for now. Athelstan needs space to grieve.

He should have left his priest in Kattegat. But not, as he’d first thought, just because the charms of England might be too alluring to resist. Athelstan wasn’t ready. At least, not for a raid of this scale. Not with Horik and not on Christian lands.

His miscalculation is going to cost him one of the few he counts among his friends, and he can do nothing but watch helplessly as it happens.

Athelstan passes much of the trek back to camp in relative silence. Ragnar falls in step beside him, but he can think of nothing to say. In the evening, they sit together but Athelstan still doesn’t speak. The rift between them has grows wider still. Ragnar isn’t used to feeling powerless and he doesn’t much care for it. It makes him restless and he aches to leave, except he can’t. Athelstan may not be thrilled by his presence, but they both know it’s the only thing keeping Floki in check.

It’s a relief when the camp quiets down. Athelstan is the first to stand. He hasn’t yet returned the arm ring to Ragnar, but he imagines it’s only a matter of time.

When he retires for the night, sleep doesn’t come. He finds himself getting up to pace.

He hears the sound of leather striking flesh, followed by a gasp of pain. He knows it’s Athelstan before he rounds the corner to lay eyes on the priest, on his knees without his shirt. Blood trails down his back. He strikes again and lets out an angry huff of breath. He whips the leather strap around again, throwing as much force as he can muster into the blow.

“Athelstan…”

He stiffens, turning his head to look at Ragnar.

“Don’t,” he grinds out, striking himself again.

Ragnar crouches beside him, though he at least has the sense not to try to touch the other man.

“Athelstan,” he tries again.

“I’m a free man, aren’t I,” he challenges. “You can’t forbid it anymore.”

“No,” Ragnar agrees. He turns his eyes skyward, looking for patience. Usually, Athelstan is the calm one. Even in his anger, he’s restrained and thoughtful. Ragnar knows that Athelstan. He doesn’t know how to handle his friend when he’s like this. “Will you at least tell me why?”

At first, Athelstan doesn’t answer. Instead, he just strikes his back yet again. “He was just like me. He just wanted to save their books. I panicked, and I killed him. And the priest, that’s two. Two men of God, who have done nothing but devoted their lives to the Lord. Dead by my hand.” “I need,” he pauses to swing his strap again. “Penance.” And then there’s a bitter scoff. “Except I can’t…” He pauses again to swing. “Hit.” Swing. “Hard enough.”

Taking in the sight of his back, Ragnar doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with the strength of his blows. “There’s not a man here who hasn’t made a mistake.”

“A mistake,” Athelstan snarls. “He was barely more than a novice, Ragnar. And he died with my axe in his chest. That’s murder, not a _mistake_. And the priest—”

“Mercy,” Ragnar says softly. “You couldn’t have saved him.”

“He would have had time to hide. Except he saw me… Saw what I did…” He draws in a shuddering breath. He stops speaking, instead landing three more blows on his back, grunting from pain and the exertion. “He could have lived.”

He raises the leather again, but Ragnar can no longer sit and watch. He catches Athelstan’s wrist and gently coaxes the strap out of his hand and sets it aside. It’s a mark of how tired his priest is that he doesn’t resist. “I can’t afford to have you injured.”

Fingers brush gently against the ring he’d gifted the priest. He heaves a sigh. He wants Athelstan to return to Kattegat with him when this is over—he hated the thought of losing his friend to his homeland. And yet he wonders if he isn’t destined to lose him either way. If that is the case, he would rather see him find peace here than broken by despair. “If this is too much—”

“Don’t ask me now,” Athelstan interrupts, pulling his hand away. “I care about you, Ragnar. God help me, but I do. And yet, I hate the man I’ve become for you.” His voice is raw with anguish and anger.

Bitterness seeps into Ragnar’s voice. “Well. If I’m such a burden, perhaps you should leave now.” It’s unfair, and he knows it. But Ragnar is not Athelstan and doesn’t possess his calm composure in the face of anger and hurt.

His priest stands. “Can’t you _ever_ just leave well enough alone?” He huffs and shakes his head as he walks away, likely to find somewhere else to torment himself. At least he’s left the strap behind.

The night seems to stretch on for an eternity.

Come morning, he keeps Athelstan at camp. Or tries to, anyway—England has made the priest unpredictable and Ragnar doesn’t know what he will do in his absence. But he speaks Saxon well enough that he doesn’t need his priest with him to discuss terms with the king. Should things go south, Athelstan doesn’t have another battle in him and if he intends to stay in Wessex, it’s best that the king not see him among the Northmen.

The arrival of the king’s bishop and general leaves him hopeful—perhaps they will all be spared more unnecessary bloodshed. However, as they make ready to leave for the king’s villa, Ecbert’s general dies at Horik’s hand.

Ragnar rounds on him. “That was stupid.”

Horik’s lips twist in a sneer. “Now he will be even more eager to see us gone.” He gestures mockingly for the bishop to lead the way. “Remember, Ragnar, I am your king, and you are answerable to me.”

The Earl scoffs, but he does not disagree.

Aethelwulf meets them at the gates. “Which of you is Ragnar Lothbrock?” Eyes the color of steel rake over them in disdain, settling on Ragnar as he steps forward. “My father wishes to speak with you.” Then he turns to Horik. “He has asked me to wait with you, unarmed, for Ragnar’s return, as a gesture of good faith.”

Horik looks like he wants to argue, but he at least has the sense to realize that here, King Ecbert has the upper hand and it is best to abide by his wishes. He swallows his objections watches as Ragnar is led inside.

The king lounges in his bathhouse, lazily turning his head towards his guest. “Ah. Ragnar Lothbrock, welcome.”

Steam rises from the heated water and hangs heavily in the air. Ecbert seems to enjoy it, but Ragnar finds it sticky and oppressive. Negotiations across a table would have been by far preferable. Still, as the king waves him over and asks the Northman to join him, he accepts, stripping off his tunic and sinking into the heated water.

“I confess, I’m surprised you and your men remain. You have all the riches of Winchester, and I wonder, what more do you think we have that is worth remaining to find?”

Ragnar shrugs. In the absence of King Horik, he admits, “It isn’t your treasure that interests me.” He reclines like a cat and leans his head back, by all appearances not at all intimidated in the presence of the English king. “I’m a farmer at heart. But the land in my country is difficult to work and yields meager crops. Here, the soil is rich and fertile. That is the real treasure of your country.”

King Ecbert doesn’t dismiss him outright. Instead, his expression becomes speculative. “Is that so?” Ragnar nods, and the king gives a thoughtful hum. “If that is truly the case, then I don’t see why we can’t be of use to each other.” His smile is familiar to Ragnar—it’s the smile of a wolf. “I am an ambitious man, and I have neighbors who stand in my way. If you were to help me make them come around to my way of seeing things, then I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t be able to find some land for you to farm, if that is your wish.”

“Ah, but it is not just myself I speak of,” Ragnar returns. “I seek a better life for all my people.”

“A settlement, then.” His eyebrows raise for a moment, and then he gives a shrug of his own. “I’m sure something can be worked out, provided you can assist me in achieving my goals. Lend me your swords, and you shall have your land.”

“I will have to consult with my men, of course. Allow me to return to our camp, and I will send word with our decision.”

They don’t trust each other—not truly. But for now, the prospect of even a tenuous alliance is tempting, and he hopes he can convince Horik that it is a worthwhile pursuit. He returns to his king alive and well, and Aethelwulf is relieved of his obligation to wait with Horik.

He sits on the information until they return to camp—it is an offer he thinks everyone should hear. This isn’t a matter just for kings and earls, it stands to change all of their lives. It is the future he has always dreamed of—one where he can lay down his axe and shield in favor of a plow. Perhaps others will share that dream. Triumphant, he announces, “King Ecbert has offered to pay us not in silver or gold, but something far greater. He has offered land here, to build a settlement of our own.”

Horik’s brow knits in displeasure. “What use do we have for his land? We have lands of our own.”

“But not that are fertile like this. At home, we fight and we struggle. Here, we can thrive. We can build a new life, a better life, than we could ever have aspired to before. I—”

The sound of a horn announces the arrival of a ship and cuts Ragnar off. He recognizes the boat as one of Horik’s, come to bring news from Kattegat. The promise of land is all but forgotten as the assembled crowd demands to hear what the messenger has to say.

“Earl Ragnar, Jarl Borg has invaded Kattegat. Your brother was able to get your family to safety, but he has taken control of the city. You must return.”

Angry shouts rise from his own men—cries for vengeance and promises to reclaim their home. They will prepare the ships and set sail as soon as they are able. There is no choice to be made by any of them, except perhaps his priest. Blue eyes seek out the Saxon among them. He is not usually so difficult to read, but right now Ragnar finds the set of his jaw and look in his eye inscrutable. For now, he leaves the matter and throws himself into preparations for the voyage back home. He doesn’t seek out the priest until the ships and his men are near ready to depart.

Athelstan stands on the shore, but he has not gathered any of his belongings.

“Is this your decision, then?”

“No.”

He holds up his arm and shows Ragnar his ring is still there. “But you’ll need someone here looking out for your interests and Horik can’t negotiate without a translator.”

“Then…?” He dares to hope, but Athelstan shakes his head.

“I need to decide who I am, Ragnar, and who I want to be. I think it will be easier without you.” There’s no malice or cruelty in his priest’s voice, but the words sting all the same. Athelstan gives a small smile to try to soften the blow. “Go take care of Kattegat. I will be here, and you will have your answer when you return.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

Slowly, Ragnar nods, and he claps Athelstan on the shoulder. “Alright, then. May the gods keep you.”

“I will pray for your safe return.”

The Northman boards his ship and they depart. His eyes linger on the shoreline, watching the shrinking form of his priest, wondering whether they will ever meet again.

Patience is hard to come by, and yet he requires it in spades. Jarl Borg has his claws deep in the city and brute force will not suffice—dislodging him will require care and strategy. And yet every day they plan is another day away from England. Each night, Ragnar’s dreams of the usurper’s death become more gruesome. He will take payment for each hour that is wasted from the man’s hide.

Much as Ragnar wants to charge into the city and separate Jarl Borg’s head from his shoulders, their numbers remain insufficient.

However, he can’t stand to wait until he gathers force enough to storm Kattegat. Jarl Borg is a violent and dangerous man, but he doesn’t share Ragnar’s aptitude for strategy. If Ragnar cannot match him with numbers alone, he can at least overcome him in a battle of wits. A fire set in the grain stores flushes his prey out from the safety of his walls.

Finally, Ragnar’s blade is at Borg’s throat. He can end it, if he wants to. Rid the earth of the miserable rat. And yet, eyes ablaze with all the wrath of their gods, he growls, “Death on the battlefield is too good for you.” He will need time to settle on something more fitting.

For now, his men take his vanquished foe to be put in chains.

However, he is granted a momentary stay of execution with the arrival of Horik and a small handful of his men in Kattegat. The sight of them ignites something primal and feral in the Northman as he seeks out his priest. In that moment, Horik is not his king. Any authority he may have means nothing to Ragnar.

He begins to speak, but before he can utter a word, Ragnar snarls, “Where is Athelstan?”

The king’s lips twist in a cruel sneer. “The Christian?” He gestures to the few men with him. “These are all the men who have returned, and you ask about _one_ who we’d have been better off without?”

“Where. Is. He?”

“Your _pet_ betrayed us,” Horik spits. “The kings men ambushed us. Those who stand before you are the only ones who made it out. And your Christian was last seen in the company of Saxon soldiers. I have no doubt—”

“Lies.”

Horik doesn’t assert his position. He could have, but it would have been foolish. His forces are depleted and they both know it. Ragnar is also confident that in single combat, the king would certainly perish by his hand. “Athelstan would not betray me. If he was taken by the Saxons, then he is dead. And _you_ are fortunate you might still be of use to me.”

Dead.

Athelstan is dead, and it’s his own damn fault. He should have known better than to trust Horik to protect his priest. He should have insisted. Should have made Athelstan return to Kattegat with him, with the promise to return him to England himself if that is what he wanted. He can no longer stand the sight of his king. Instead, turns and prowls away, snarling his rage and his grief.

This is Borg’s doing. He is the one who forced Ragnar to abandon their raid, and he will pay for it. The decision, then, of what to do with the usurper comes quickly and easily. Ragnar intends to give him wings and he will not hear any objections.

He regrets only that such a death might still grant Borg entry to Valhalla.

With the usurper bound before him, he takes hold of his knife. The cut is slow and deliberate as he slices into the man’s back. Jarl Borg is silent. Ragnar twists the knife and gives a sharp tug—he wants him to scream. Odin will welcome him only if he can endure his death in silence, and Ragnar _aches_ to hear the cries that will ensure he may never feast in those sacred halls. And yet even as the floor is stained with blood and Ragnar cuts away the flesh of his back, his captive does not scream.

He is a patient man, drawing the torture out as much as he can. But in the presence of Borg’s stoicism rage coils tightly within him. He reaches for the axe and channels that anger into the blow as he hacks at exposed ribs, separating them from the spine.

_Scream_.

The only sound Borg makes is a muffled gasp. Still, he neither cries nor begs, but simply endures. The axe finishes its work of opening up the man’s back and Ragnar himself wants to scream his frustration. He crouches behind the dying man, eyes flickering like coals in the torchlight. He speaks quietly, so none save Borg can hear. If, in fact, the man can hear through the agony.

“You may reach Valhalla. But you had best enjoy it while you can. Because one day, I will find you there, and we will fight again in the presence of the gods. And there, I shall win. And I will carve an eagle into your back every day until you _beg_ for Ragnarok to end your suffering.”

He reaches into Borg’s back and removes his lungs, draping them over his shoulders. And then he watches as he dies with as much dignity as he can, still without a single scream on his lips.

This man has paid in blood for his hand in the priest’s death and now so, too, must Wessex. Ragnar will return, and he will tear across the country as a scourge, bringing with him destruction of which the Saxons had never even dared to dream.

Athelstan will be avenged.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athelstan wants to return to Christ, this much he knows. But he does not yet know how or even if he can. His faith weighs heavily upon him, but he can't help but feel he doesn't truly belong in Wessex. He stays because he must, but when the Northmen return to England's shores, Athelstan will once again be called upon to decide where his future lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Okay. So, remember how I said this was supposed to be a one-shot and it became a two-shot? Well, apparently that was a lie. I started writing and realized that Athelstan still had a lot of things to think about and I want to get the moment where he makes his choice properly. So, here is a chapter in Wessex from Athelstan's POV as he tries to figure out who he is and where he belongs.
> 
> I am pretty sure that the next chapter will be the last. Ragnar and Athelstan are reunited so they'll be able to work out their copious amounts of angst. 
> 
> As always, feedback is always appreciated. I'd love to know what you think so far!
> 
> ~Anges

Athelstan screws his eyes shut, fingers curling tightly around the blood-stained pages of a Bible, stolen from Winchester and generously gifted to him. It was meant to mock him—to mark him out as not one of them. And yet he tries to take comfort in the familiar words, or at least focus on them to block out the sounds of the screams.

Horik’s men are evil. The nuns don’t mean harm to anyone. That hasn’t stopped the Northmen from stalking and abusing them. He tries not to hear the miserable wails of women whose chastity has been stolen from them but he can’t escape it, nor can he stop it from happening.

He is meant to be a free man, yet he feels every bit as powerless as he had been as a slave.

Athelstan can’t help but wonder if Horik’s men are actually the problem. Floki has always been among Ragnar’s most loyal friends and Athelstan has seen the innate cruelty within him. For the first time in years, he is once again at Lindisfarne. The screams of the nuns become the screams of his brothers and the bellowing laughter of Horik’s men the ungodly howls of Ragnar and his band of heathens desecrating the church.

The Saxon had come to care for Ragnar, in time. For the most part, he hadn’t been a cruel master. Invitations to his bed had been just that—invitations. When Athelstan declined, he’d never forced the issue. He hadn’t forbidden Athelstan from praying to his own God, either. It isn’t to say that Ragnar had never hurt him or otherwise put him in his place—he had, many times over. But as far as masters went, he could have been so much worse.

Is it any wonder, then, that he’d sought to distance the man who had become the end all and be all of his world from the barbarian who’d sacked his home?

Horik’s men are different, he tries to convince himself. But are they really? Ragnar is the man who laughed with and loved his children, who’d welcome Athelstan to sit with his family while they told stories together. He’s the man who asked Athelstan about his faith and his God in earnest, genuine curiosity rather than with the mocking overtones of a man who thought himself above an ignorant Christian. Ragnar is the man who freed him and became his closest and most valued friend.

Ragnar is _also_ the man who murdered his brothers and the reason he had ever been a slave in the first place. An ocean separating them, Athelstan sees him perhaps more clearly than he ever has. And yet somehow he still can’t reconcile his earl with the man who’d once taken everything from him. Or even these men, doing things he wants to insist Ragnar would never condone despite knowing full well that Ragnar has, in fact, behaved exactly as they behave now.

Ragnar has changed. Perhaps.

Except maybe he hasn’t. Maybe it is Athelstan who has changed—become one of them. In Kattegat, it was easy. But in Wessex, all the ugliness of it laid bare before him, he cannot stand the sight of it. This isn’t what he wants to be. And yet it is what he has become and he doesn’t know if he can ever go back.

It has been a long time since he has felt so utterly lost. Ragnar is the shield he chooses to hide behind when he can stand it no more.

He is neither as strong nor as experienced with a weapon as any of the men here, and yet he musters the courage to confront them. If nothing else, the momentary distraction of his approach is just enough to allow the women to flee with their lives. “Have you lost your minds? We are _meant_ to be negotiating with the English. Do you think King Ecbert will ever be agreeable to a settlement here if this is how you behave?”

The Viking shrugs lazily, appearing much more amused than chastised. “Just having some fun. Perhaps you should give it a try—you seem a little tense.”

Athelstan jaw tightens. Any remnants of fear in his bearing are overcome with righteous anger. “And what do you think Ragnar will say if he finds you’ve sabotaged his plans?”

“Ragnar is not king,” comes the sneering reply. A malicious gaze rakes him over. “And besides, if it’s the word of a Christian against my own, I like my chances.”

For the first time, Athelstan is truly grateful for the arm ring he wears. He holds it up and retorts, “My word is just the same as yours.”

His fists clench as his adversary chuckles. “It’s true Ragnar humors you, but everyone here knows the truth of the matter. _Ergi_.”

A snarl sounds and his fist flies. It’s stupid and reckless, and before he even realizes what’s happening, he’s lying flat on the ground, an arm twisted behind him and a knee pressed into his back. He twists and struggles but to no avail. He stills, laying in the dirt beneath the Viking. He leans over and hisses in Athelstan’s here, “No one is here to protect you. Remember your place.”

Athelstan bites down hard on the inside of his cheek as the man twists his arm painfully. He won’t give him the satisfaction of crying out. With a scoff, his attacker tugs the arm ring from his wrist and lets it fall to the ground beside him. Then, he releases the Saxon and saunters away.

He picks himself up and retrieves his arm ring, but he doesn’t immediately put it back. Athelstan feels the eyes of Horik’s men follow as he retreats. He doesn’t need to hear the mocking words to know what is on everyone’s lips—he isn’t one of them. Athelstan finds he doesn’t care.

It’s probably short-sighted of him to join the hunting party. It would be easy for them to get rid of him away from the camp. However, he takes some comfort in the fact that he is the only one among them who speaks both their language and that of the Saxons. Even if Horik doesn’t seem in any hurry to reach an agreement right now, Athelstan suspects he will at least want to have the option available to him. They may not like him, but he is at least useful enough to allow to live.

He crouches, watching a rabbit in the brush. For a moment, it gives him something to concentrate on outside the death that has become his constant companion here, and for that he is grateful.

An arrow whizzes past his ear.

His head whips around, scanning the landscape for the source. Before he can find it, another narrowly misses. He hears the shouts of men around him and he runs. Some from their group follow, others have already fallen victim to Saxon arrows. He ducks behind a fallen tree and flattens himself to the ground, eyes tracking the movements of the Vikings.

His arm ring glints in the sunlight.

He can end this. Athelstan is not a Viking—he never will be. He can talk to the soldiers, tell them his tale and perhaps they will bring him to the king. He can make a life here. And, too, perhaps by turning their attention to him for a moment he can give the others time enough to get back to camp. No more blood need be shed. For the first time since arriving on England’s shores, Athelstan sees clearly what he must do.

The sounds of footsteps approaching calls him to his feet. He holds up his hands to show he is unarmed. “Stop! Please,” he says in their language. “I am not one of them.”

He dares to hope for a moment he might be delivered.

That hope dies when rough hands grab him and bind him.

“Wait,” he starts, but they will not listen.

“He speaks our language.”

“A traitor, then.”

“No,” he insists. “Please—”

“An apostate.” Someone touches his arm ring.

“I’m not—”

He is silenced as hand strikes his face.

Uninterested in his attempts to explain, they lead him to a clearing, where he is bound to a tree. “Fetch a priest.” The soldier looks him up and down. “Perhaps his soul might be saved, although it’s more than he deserves.” There is no kindness in his words and it isn’t truly mercy he offers. “Let us remind him of how our Lord suffered, that he might see the error of his ways and repent before he dies.”

Athelstan’s stomach twists in knots. “Please!”

His protest falls on deaf ears.

He struggles, trying to free himself of the ropes that bind him. His skin chafes as he strains against the rough chord, but the knots are tight and will not yield. He is going to die and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Athelstan can do nothing but watch as the preparations are made for a crucifixion.

He begins to pray, but his throat his tight and his breaths are shallow and irregular. He cannot give voice to them, but rather he offers them up in the silence of his heart. As his mind races and the world seems to spin, he does not yet realize that he doesn’t know to whom he prays—Odin or Christ.

His cross prepared, the order comes to strip Athelstan down to his loincloth. He puts up a feeble, token struggle, but the soldiers take his clothes and force him to his knees.

The soldier who’d called for the priest stands behind him. “Thirty-nine lashes our Lord endured. I think it fitting that you be given the same, that you might fully appreciate the gift bestowed upon us by the God you have abandoned.”

The first lash lands on his back and his body jerks. It is unlike anything he has ever felt before. Ragnar has hit him, yes, but never with a whip and never like this. And while he has flogged himself in the past, the spare bits of rope or leather he scavenged for the purpose were nothing like the lash the soldier wields and the strength of his own arm had never managed to land a blow with half so much force.

The second draws a pained gasp, but he will not scream. If he must die, he wants to endure it with as much dignity as he can. He will not give those looking on the satisfaction. It’s a noble thought, and he tries to hold to it. But finally, the leather that bites into flesh again and again pulls that first, anguished cry.

He tries to count, to at least give himself a sense of how much more he must endure, but somewhere along the way he loses track. He no longer knows whether his screams are pleas or just unintelligible cries. It doesn’t matter, regardless his captors will not care. When it is finished and the men who’d held him fast release him, he slumps to the ground, panting and gasping, his throat already raw.

And yet the pain has only just begun.

They leave him for a moment. Someone speaks, but he doesn’t hear.

Athelstan doesn’t have the strength to resist when they grab him again to pin him to his cross to bind his wrists. A crown of thorns gouges the flesh of his scalp and blood trickles from his brow into the grass beside him. His fingers twitch helplessly as the point of a nail presses against the center of his palm.

He’d thought himself unable to scream any longer. The sickening pain of a mallet driving the rough, metal spike into his hand proves him wrong. Bone provides momentary resistance before shattering from a particularly forceful blow. He twitches and convulses against the wood, uttering choking, strangled cries. He doesn’t see, he can’t think, he can only wallow in the excruciating torment. They nail his other hand down, but yet he is utterly unprepared for the torture of his feet receiving the same treatment. It takes his torturers longer still to drive a nail through both his feet, and each strike of the mallet sends fresh shocks of pain that find echo in every other bone in his broken and battered body.

Finally, they hoist up the cross.

Immediately, he feels the strain in his joints. The muscles of his legs strain to offer some support, but his strength fails almost immediately. The weight of his torso pulls on his shoulders and he struggles to breathe. Surely… Surely, it must end soon. He isn’t strong enough to endure. And God cannot be so cruel. “Please,” he breathes, a soft and desperate prayer. If God will not save him, then the Allfather. Someone. Surely _someone_ must care to end his suffering.

But no one comes and he is left to hang, every muscle stretched taught and face contorted in pain. His chest heaves with each desperate and painful gasp for air. He turns his eyes to the sky. “Why… Why have you abandoned me?”

And then he can no longer speak. He is dizzy and blackness hovers at the edge of his vision. Please. Please, he is so, so ready to die.

He feels himself falling backward. This must be it. He begs the Lord to take his soul to wherever He sees fit to send it. Heaven or Hell or Valhalla. He no longer cares, he just wants the pain to stop.

Except Athelstan doesn’t die. The cross falls back and his entire body aches as it strikes the ground. Suddenly, he can breathe again. He hungrily takes in the air his lungs crave even though the suddenness of it makes him sick. He doesn’t understand. He sees a figure—a man, he thinks?—standing over him, but he can’t make out the face.

They begin to drive the nails from his hands just before the world goes dark.

The days that follow pass in a fever dream.

Someone cares for him. Gentle hands bring with them fresh waves of pain as they peel bandages away to clean and re-wrap gaping wounds. Sometimes, they encourage him to take some water or broth, or he thinks he feels a damp cloth wiping sweat from his brow. If he’s seen the face of his caretaker, he can’t recall. He isn’t even sure if it’s real or simply a phantom conjured by an addled mind. He never speaks, he isn’t sure he can. He lays still, drifting in and out of consciousness.

When he finally wakes in any meaningful way, he’s in a cell, much like the one he’d occupied at Lindisfarne. Is this Heaven? It would make sense, he thinks, for Heaven to look like a monastery. But that be the case, why does he still hurt? Surely in Paradise, there would be no suffering… He doesn’t understand. His brow knits in confusion as weary eyes try to take in more of his surroundings.

It comes as a shock to see the king seated beside his bed. He is dreaming, he must be. All the same, he tries to sit up, but a hand comes to rest against his chest. He flinches.

“Rest,” the king commands. Gentle, grey eyes and a kind smile belie his reputation as a ruthless opponent on the field of battle. “You’re safe.”

He should know better than to believe it. And yet those eyes… The blueish grey of them reminds him so much of another pair of eyes which he knows to be so, very kind and yet utterly ruthless by turns. Eyes that had made him safe and protected, once upon a time. There is something familiar in the king that compels Athelstan to trust him, foolish though it may be. “Safe,” he sighs, relaxing back into the bed.

“Yes.” Satisfied that Athelstan will remain where he is, King Ecbert removes his hand and sits back. “You’re weak, and I thought it best to leave you in the capable hands of your brothers in Christ.”

At that, Athelstan can’t help but give a derisive snort. Christians. His brothers… The men who’d nailed him to that cross had thought of themselves as good Christians.

The king chooses not to comment. Instead, he continues, “But, when you are strong enough, I will have you brought to stay in my villa. There, you shall be under my protection and none will dare harm you.”

“Why?” Who is he, that the king of Wessex should care whether he lives or dies?

“You arrived on our shores with the Northmen. And yet, you speak our language, and I am told you claim not to be one of them.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Perhaps they were simply the words of a man desperate to save his own life, but I do not believe it is so.” His eyes are calculating, and with that thoughtful glint they are just that much more familiar to Athelstan. It stirs an ache in the depths of his soul that he’s not sure he understands. “You have a story I think deserves to be told. I should like to hear it.”

However, when Athelstan draws a breath to speak, he shakes his head. “Not now. For now, just rest. When you are stronger, we will talk more. For now, I simply wanted to tell you that you are safe.”

It occurs to Athelstan that he ought to be tired of sleeping. He still doesn’t know how long he has been unconscious. And yet, with at least some knowledge of where he is and the reassurance that he is safe from harm, he finds his eyes once again grow heavy and he can rest easy. He is alive. He is alive and he is in Wessex and he is safe. He doesn’t yet know King Ecbert’s true intentions towards him or what the Saxons will think of his presence among them, but for now he doesn’t care. For now, what little he does know is enough.

They treat him kindly, at least. Mostly, it’s Brother Leofwin who tends to him. He is young—perhaps around the same age Athelstan had been when the Northmen came to Lindisfarne—and always enters the room with a smile. “Athelstan,” he greets warmly. “It’s good to see you’re looking better.”

Athelstan musters as much of a smile as he can. “It’s good to see you, Brother Leofwin.”

Leofwin gives an amused huff. “You needn’t like to spare my feelings.”

His eyes drop and he can’t help but feel a bit chastised. It isn’t entirely a lie, but neither is it fully the truth. Still unable to walk, he is confined to this room and Leofwin’s visits are about the sum total of his interactions with other people. They are also the only thing that breaks up the days. Perhaps it’s a sign of improvement, but Athelstan finds himself growing bored. He can only sleep so many hours, and unable to move from his bed, his waking hours tend to drag.

It’s occurred to him to ask if he might borrow a book, but he doesn’t want to impose on their kindness more than he already has. And besides, he isn’t sure he’d even be able to grip one.

And yet, grateful as he is for some relief from the monotony, the process of cleaning and inspecting his wounds is never pleasant.

He grimaces as the monk takes hold of his hand. Leofwin ducks his head and offers an apology as he unwraps the bandages. He works as gently as he can, but that doesn’t stop a sharp intake of breath as he inspects damaged flesh and probes cautiously, trying to take the measure of how the healing process has progressed. “No sign of infection.” He moves to the foot of the bed to tend to Athelstan’s feet. “But it will be some time yet, I think, before you’ll walk.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise, and yet Athelstan can’t help but feel a stab of disappointment.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

It takes a moment for Athelstan to muster the courage. But finally, he asks, “Why are you doing this?”

Leofwin looks up, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Why do you care for me?”

“You’re injured,” he answers, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Is it not our duty to provide care to those in need?”

Athelstan’s brow furrows and his lips twist. “But I was crucified. I am an apostate. Surely I’m not—”

“I don’t believe that,” Leofwin answers bluntly. “You called for God,” he continues, “while unconscious. You may have lost your way, but Christ is still in your heart.”

And then he shrugs, corners of his eyes crinkling a little as his lips tug upward in a smile. “And even if you are as you say, perhaps, then, Christ has brought you here for a reason. A good shepherd, having one hundred sheep, will not, if one goes missing, ignore it in favor of the other ninety-nine. He will search for his lost sheep, and when it is found, that sheep shall bring him more joy than any other in his flock. Whatever you think of yourself, God has seen fit to call you home. We’d be poor Christians indeed if we failed to tend to your needs and rejoice with Him that you have been found.”

Athelstan’s brow creases. Home. Is he home? In some ways, he feels more himself in the quiet of the monastery than he has in years. The quiet is a refreshing change from the boisterous clamor of life among the Northmen, and Brother Leofwin seems an entirely different breed of man—one whose company Athelstan had once craved. Perhaps he’d forgotten how very much he’d missed it.

“Brother Leofwin?” He sighs quietly, lips pursing. “I find my own thoughts are not always the best company. Would you read to me?”

“Of course.”

The monk leaves for a moment, and Athelstan can’t help but feel a bit relieved when he returns, a book in hand. Leofwin sits at his bedside and reads a parable. Athelstan recognizes it as one he used to know quite well, but the memory of it has grown dimmer over the years. He settles back and listens, allowing the cadence of Leofwin’s voice to ease him back to sleep.

When he wakes, he finds the book has been left for him and each day Leofwin reads to him.

Athelstan is grateful when he is finally able to try to walk. It’s slow and painful and he can’t get far by himself, but it’s progress. He is given a cane to lean on, but it does him little good as his hands lack the strength to grip it. However, even as his own frustration mounts, Leofwin offers patient encouragement and reassurance that it will get easier in time. 

Eventually, he is able to hobble around on his own. However that success brings with it the bitter realization that his time at the monastery is drawing to a close. Were he given a choice to remain there to rededicate his life to Christ in the quiet company of the brothers, he can’t help but think the decision would have been easy. But Ecbert wishes to have Athelstan at his court and, alive only because of the king’s good will, he must oblige.

However, it doesn’t take long to recognize the king’s villa for what it is. He is welcomed warmly as an honored guest, but it soon becomes apparent that he is no freer in Ecbert’s court than he had been among the Vikings. Gilded though it may be, he has simply traded one cage for another.

And, too, the monks had mostly treated him with compassion, but those who couldn’t bring themselves to feel pity for a man who had abandoned their Lord had been perfectly content to simply ignore his presence and go about their lives. Outside that cloistered existence, he feels the weight of eyes upon him near constantly. The king’s son in particular seems to always have a sneer reserved just for him.

Athelstan tries to keep his head down and stay out of the way. It isn’t difficult—he may be able to walk, but certainly not without pain and not for long distances. His hands can only grasp the cane for so long before they too begin to ache. Athelstan tries to keep to his quarters as much out of necessity as to sequester himself in the safety of solitude. However, it is only a matter of time before Ecbert seeks him out.

The king approaches with a genial smile, no doubt intended to disarm. “Athelstan,” he greets. “I’ve not seen much of you since your arrival.”

Perhaps he should feel cornered. But he is no less so here than he would have been anywhere else. “I apologize, my lord, but it is still difficult to walk very far.”

Ecbert waves away his apology. “It merely occurred to me I’d not yet had the time to see how you’ve settled in, and I thought that rather remiss of me.”

“My lord is very generous.”

The king takes a seat in his room. There’s something dangerous lurking in his expression that perhaps ought to set Athelstan on edge. Once upon a time it would have and he knows he has Ragnar to thank for the calm he feels in Ecbert’s presence. “And, I confess, I have also come to satisfy my curiosity. You’ve not yet told me how an Englishman came to arrive on my shores on the Northmens’ ships.”

Athelstan has nothing to hide, and so he answers with the truth. He recounts for the king his tale of the day Ragnar and his men had attacked Lindisfarne and taken him across the sea to their home. And yet, not all the details need be divulged. He talks of being made a slave and trying to find a place for himself among the heathens in order to survive. He has sense enough not to mention how close he’d grown to Ragnar and his family, nor the hold the Pagan gods had come to have on his heart. He talks about the initial excitement to be back on England’s shores and the subsequent anguish of realizing what his presence meant. His guilt over betraying his countrymen, but not the conflict of trying to justify his friendship with Ragnar.

Ecbert wants a tale of woe, and that is precisely what Athelstan spins.

“You are a holy man, Athelstan,” Ecbert muses. “God has favored you, and you are here by His design. I do believe in bringing you to me, He has smiled upon us all.”

From then on, the king dotes on him. He dresses Athelstan in the robes of a priest, gifts him with a golden cross, and absolutely insists that he dine with Ecbert and his family. At one time, Athelstan might have been charmed and flattered by the attentions heaped upon him by a king. Now, he simply finds it tiresome. King Ecbert praising him for his holiness while simultaneously peppering him with seemingly endless questions about the heathens reeks with the same stench of Ragnar plying him with ale to extract information about his homeland. Younger, frightened, and much more guileless, back then he’d fallen easily into the trap. Not so now. He answers the king’s questions well enough but is careful to avoid saying anything of consequence.

Ragnar and Ecbert are men cut from the very same cloth. In the addled haze of his sickbed, he may have found the familiarity soothing, but now that he’s healed, it’s stale and exhausting.

And, too, while at the monastery he may have entertained thoughts of finding a home in England and giving himself once again entirely to Christ, with each passing day in the royal villa, it feels more and more just a distant dream. For all of the king’s efforts to bring him into the fold and make him welcome, the prince’s cold eyes and sneering lips remind him that to many he is the enemy.

He had hoped he might find some peace when he is able to make it to church the way he had in the quiet of the monastery. However, he sees not the peaceful gathering of the faithful, but rather the carnage of Winchester. The quiet prayers of the priest are impossible to hear over the screams he cannot silence. His stomach lurches. His lips move rapidly as he offers hushed, desperate prayers for the dead but even that will not banish the bloody scene from his memory.

Athelstan is wide-eyed and pale as he approaches the altar for Communion. He watches the priest in a silent plea. He wants to believe that he is worthy—that he can return to Christ. There is neither pardon nor reassurance, in fact the priest seems to hesitate, his eyes narrowed in displeasure and expression pinched as he regards the man he recognizes as an apostate. He neither outwardly condemns nor turns Athelstan away, but the lines of disapproval on his face are enough.

He limps away from the altar and, when he is certain no eyes remain upon him, discards the sacred bread. He should have known better than to presume to Commune with the Lord.

The Saxon remains there on his knees long after the final benediction has been offered, pleading with God for forgiveness he fears may never come. Away from the gentle care of Leofwin and his brothers, the true gravity of his sins takes hold of him. He is in the Devil’s grasp and knows neither how to free himself nor to whom he can turn for help.

The robes Ecbert has given him become oppressive and he longs for the tunics he’d worn among the Northmen. They would suit him better than the garb of a holy man—clothing he no longer has any right to claim. The delicate chain of the crucifix feels as heavy and chafing as Ragnar’s rope had once been about his neck. Yet, it pleases the king to see him wear all the trappings of a devoted man of Christ, and so he cannot shed them no matter how they make his skin crawl.

He hobbles through a life that is not his own—a vision, perhaps, of what might have been had the Northmen never come to Lindisfarne, of who he could have been. It’s cruel, because part of him _aches_ for it. He craves the closeness with Christ and the surety of the Lord he had once known all those years ago and a part of him wishes with everything in him that he had never been forced to shed the cowl of a monk. But for better or for worse, Ragnar had taken him and Athelstan has changed. The man he once was belonged to God, but he isn’t sure he knows how to reconcile the man he is now with the Lord he once knew.

To his credit, Ecbert tries. He favors Athelstan more than he ought to and continues to gift him with things that would have once given him great joy. But even the brushes and paints he is given so he might once more take up the work he’d done at Lindisfarne and illuminate the holy texts fail to bring him any closer to God. His hands no longer work as well as they once had and he quickly becomes frustrated with the sloppiness of his work. And, too, Ecbert’s kindness and generosity are tainted with the bitter knowledge of the utilitarian nature of the man.

Athelstan can’t forget, he is alive because he may yet be useful.

Exhausted by the effort of trying to fit the role that has been thrust upon him, he sinks to his knees beside his bed. His shoulders sag with the weight of his existence.

“Father, I give myself unto You. I want nothing more than to be Yours again.” He breaks off, brow creasing and lips pursing. “I know You are there—I hear You. And yet… Still in the thunder, I have heard Thor, and I cannot unhear his hammer. What am I to do?” He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “You left me. You let them take me to their lands, where You would not speak. The silence was deafening, and yet within it, I learned to hear the voices of others. Now I am torn.”

His fellow Christians would say he should burn in Hell for so much as acknowledging the existence of other gods. It is heresy. Once upon a time, Athelstan would have agreed. But now he knows what he has heard and felt in his soul, and God knows it, too.

“I will no longer acknowledge them,” he says, “if that is what will please You, but I cannot pretend I have never known them. Do not turn me away because of it. Please, help me to see and do Your will. I am not Pagan, nor do I have any desire to be so. Yet, I am no longer certain I know how to be Christian. I need Your hand to guide me. Please.”

There is no answer. Instead, his prayers are interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching and the door thrust open.

“Pagan.” He hears the steely voice of the king’s son.

“Your Highness.” He picks himself up off the floor and gets to his feet, bracing himself for the vitriol that must be coming.

“My father requires your presence.”

Athelstan follows the prince, ever the obedient servant. Neither one speaks as they walk. The silence suits Athelstan perfectly well—he has nothing of value to say to Aethelwulf, and he would much rather be ignored than condemned by the prince. In his rebukes, it isn’t as though the other man ever says anything Athelstan doesn’t already know in his own heart.

“Athelstan.” The king’s tone is somber and sets Athelstan on edge. There’s the glint of metal in his hands and his brow creases as he studies it. “I have something that belongs to you. I’d meant to return it some time ago, but I’m a busy man, and I confess it had slipped my mind.”

He holds up what Athelstan recognizes as the arm ring Ragnar had given him what feels like a lifetime ago. Its return must mean something—there is very little the king does without cause.

“Thank you, my lord.” He accepts it cautiously, turning it over in his hands, not yet placing it upon his wrist.

“It marks you as one of the Northmen, does it not?”

There is a right answer—there must be. But Athelstan doesn’t know where this conversation is meant to lead, and so he can only answer with the truth. “Yes.” He settles for providing as little information as he is able.

“And if you were to wear it, it would grant you safe passage among them?”

“It might, but there is no guarantee, my lord. There were many among them who never accepted me as one of their own.”

The king gives a rueful grimace. “Athelstan, you must know you are very dear to me, and I would hate to put you in harm’s way, but the Northmen have returned to our shores. Aethelwulf and his men were able to fend them off for now, but I fear our victory is only temporary. I must ask you to go to them on my behalf.”

Though framed as a request, they both know there is no real choice. The arm ring takes its place around his wrist.

“What will you have me say to them?”

“I have no desire to sacrifice more of my soldiers than necessary. Find out what they want and it is my hope that we can reach an understanding without further bloodshed.” Athelstan studies him as he speaks. There is nothing in his bearing to indicate he speaks anything other than the truth, and yet Athelstan finds he cannot bring himself to trust the king, even if he cannot say so.

“As it happens, we have recovered one of their men from the battlefield. He is gravely injured, but he is alive and my physician is attending to him. Tell them he might be returned to them, as a gesture of good will, should they be willing to negotiate.”

Athelstan’s mouth has gone dry. It all might have sounded perfectly civilized to an ear that has not been trained to hear the unspoken threat. King Ecbert has not saved a life, he has merely taken a hostage. “May I see him? I might recognize him, and perhaps it will help if I can provide them with a name.”

“An excellent thought.”

He can’t shake the deep sense of unease that sets in as Ecbert approaches and gives him a clap on the shoulder before leading him down a hall.

At first, Athelstan almost doesn’t recognize the man on the bed. His face is bruised and swollen, his body so broken Athelstan doubts whether he can still be saved. And yet he still breathes, perhaps out of sheer stubbornness. He studies him for a long while before he finally realizes. “Rollo.”

“You know him?”

Athelstan swallows thickly. He can’t claim ignorance, but he doesn’t yet know whether a half truth or honesty will serve him best. “I do.” He must think quickly, but the shock of recognition has made his mind sluggish. “He is Ragnar’s brother.” A valuable hostage, when so gravely injured, is perhaps more worthy of trying to keep alive than one who means little to anyone of importance. “He will be in your debt for having saved him.”

Ecbert gives Athelstan a wolfish smile. “It seems God does indeed smile upon Wessex.”

He can’t find it in him to voice his agreement, so Athelstan simply nods. Is this God’s hand? He’d been horrified to learn that the heathens believed their gods rejoiced in the suffering they wrought. He’d condemned them at first as vicious savages worshipping false and utterly barbaric gods. In his cloistered life, he’d been sequestered far away from the machinations of battlefields and political intrigue, and he’d known a soft and generous faith. It sits poorly to hear the same joy in destruction on the lips of a man who styles himself as a good and pious Christian.

“I will go,” he agrees, voice strained. “To bring word that Rollo lives and see if they will negotiate.”

“We owe you a great debt.”

“Not at all. It is a privilege to serve my lord in whatever ways I am able.” Then he draws in a shuddering breath. “I have only one request. I ask that you allow me to go alone.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to send you to their camp unprotected?”

He manages a smile. “Please, my lord. If Ragnar is among them, I believe he will not harm me. And if he is not, I couldn’t stand to see anyone die in my defense.”

“You’re a good man, Athelstan.”

He isn’t. But he tries to be.

Aethelwulf escorts him to the gates. “Betray us, Pagan, and I will personally see to it that you burn. My father will not save you again.”

Athelstan doesn’t respond, instead he urges on his borrowed horse and rides to the shore upon which he’d stood while watching Ragnar leave for Kattegat.

An archer’s bow is trained on him, but then he is met with familiar, blue eyes that he hasn’t seen in far too long. He doesn’t yet understand the shock within them—the Northman looks as though he has seen a ghost. “Hello, Ragnar.”

“Priest.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ragnar negotiates with Ecbert for peace, and Athelstan must once again make a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: It's finally finished! Ended up so much longer than I expected it to be, but I think I'm happy with how it turned out. I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated. I'd love to know what you think! I took out the stuff with King Aella and just left things between the Vikings and Ecbert here. It just seemed to fit better to me
> 
> ~Anges

“Traitor.”

Horik speaks first, prowling past the barrier, to where Ragnar and Athelstan stand. His lip curls in a sneer, eyes raking over the Saxon once again clothed in the garb of his faith. “Look at him. Do you still doubt?”

“Lies.”

Athelstan holds Horik’s gaze for a moment before he dismounts. Time spent in the company of powerful men has changed him—he is no longer the timid man who had once hidden behind Ragnar to stave off conflict. “You must know, Ragnar, I would never have betrayed you.”

“I feared you were dead.”

Athelstan gives a pained grimace. “I nearly was.”

“Come. I’m sure we have much to discuss.”

Ragnar wraps an arm around his priest’s shoulders and pointedly positions himself between Horik and Athelstan. As they walk, Athelstan scans the camp, shoulders sagging just a little with relief at the sight of familiar faces safe and well—particularly one that is not really so familiar at all. In it, there are traces of the child Athelstan once knew. They eyes are the same, and the way he carries himself still carries vestiges of an arrogance and self-assuredness he’d never outgrown, and yet he is very much a man now.

“Bjorn. You’ve grown.”

There’s a little quirk in his lips. “As have you, priest.” His voice is warmer now. The prickliness of youth has mellowed as he no longer needs all the bluster and bravado to feel like he belongs among the other men.

Lagertha is not far off and Athelstan is reassured that Ragnar’s family—his family, if he were to be completely honest with himself—is safe. And yet despite their welcome, he feels the eyes of Horik and Floki upon him, no less hostile and angry than the eyes of the English in Wessex.

The voice of the boatbuilder sneers, “Why do you trust him so easily, Ragnar? He is one of them.” A long finger flicks towards the gold crucifix hanging about his neck. “Does he look like he’s been a prisoner here to you?”

“It is true,” he admits, “that I am here on King Ecbert’s orders. I—”

“We should kill him now,” Horik snarls.

“He wants to make peace,” Athelstan insists. “He does not want to see more bloodshed, on either side. He wants you to know,” he says, “that Rollo is alive. He is in the royal villa, being tended to by the king’s physician.”

“And I suppose killing his messenger would be the fastest way the change that,” Ragnar says curtly, fixing his king with a steely glare. Horik’s lip curls in displeasure, but he does not call for Athelstan’s death again. Something has changed in Ragnar’s demeanor but Athelstan can’t pinpoint exactly what. “Come, sit. We can discuss what your king wants later.” Blue eyes watch for a moment. “You’re limping.”

Athelstan shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Priest—”

“Not now,” he cuts him off. He looks over his shoulder, Horik’s and Floki’s eyes boring holes into his back. He knows better than to allow either of them to see weakness.

He finds himself seated in a quiet corner of the camp alongside Lagertha, Bjorn, and Ragnar. The feral gleam in the latter’s eye is enough to deter curious onlookers from intruding. Even Floki keeps his distance, although Athelstan can still feel the glares upon him. Still, for now he is able to ignore it as he leans against Ragnar, whose arm drapes around his shoulders.

The world of the Vikings is more tactile than that of the English. At least, it seems so to Athelstan. He remembers he’d found it strange, once upon a time, to have another’s hands upon him so often, but he had since grown accustomed to it and missed that feeling of closeness with others while in Wessex. Aside from Leofwin’s care at the monastery and an occasional clap on the shoulder, or something of that kind, from Ecbert, he’d been very much touch starved. Except, he hadn’t realized it until just now, amidst the casual closeness of Ragnar and his family.

“I had hoped I would see you again,” he admits. “All of you.”

Bjorn snorts. “I’m sure your life has been much more peaceful without me.”

Athelstan hums in agreement. “I suppose it was. But I still missed you.”

“It’s good to see you well, Priest,” Lagertha smiles.

For a moment, Athelstan catches a glimpse of what life had been in the early days after Ragnar had become earl—before Uppsala, and before he’d driven Lagertha away. He knows that even should he return to Kattegat, things will not be the same. There is still Aslaug, after all, and the children Ragnar has had with her. Things have changed, there is no doubt. But for the moment, it’s nice to recapture just a little bit of what once had been.

“So, tell me, Priest,” Ragnar prompts. “How is it you’ve come here as the king’s messenger?’

Athelstan sighs. He glances around the camp, seeking out Floki and Horik. Only once he’s satisfied that they’re far enough away that he will not be overheard does he answer. “We were ambushed after you left,” he begins. Horik’s fault, but for now Athelstan chooses to omit that detail. “I tried to speak to the soldiers—I figured I could at least buy the others enough time to get away. I thought perhaps if I spoke their language, they might recognize me as one of their own and I could put an end to the bloodshed.”

His lips curl in a better grimace. “It was foolish. They took me for a traitor. I was to be put to death for crimes against my country. King Ecbert was passing by as they were carrying out their sentence and ordered that my life be spared. I assume because he thought I might be of use to him.”

He lifts his gaze, brow creasing as he sees the tightness of anger in Ragnar’s jawline and the fire in his eyes. “It’s not been easy, but I am alive,” he says quietly.

“Do you trust him?” It’s Bjorn who first poses the question.

Athelstan doesn’t answer immediately, perhaps because he isn’t entirely sure of the answer himself. “Lord Ecbert is not without compassion,” he begins cautiously. “I do believe that he wants to make peace.” He hopes that is the case, at least. “He is also intelligent and ambitious. Listen to what he has to say but be cautious.”

Ragnar gives a quiet scoff. “I don’t imagine we have much of a choice.” His expression is inscrutable, which concerns Athelstan. Ragnar is an intelligent man, but he is not immune to the temptation to act rashly.

He drops his voice, speaking scarcely above a whisper. “You should know,” Athelstan offers, “that the attack on Horik’s men was not unprovoked. Take care in choosing your allies.”

Ragnar’s lips thin. “You know as well as I that’s a luxury I don’t often have.”

“Perhaps not this moment,” Athelstan agrees. “But a time for it will come.” For now, Ragnar must try to strike a balance between placating Horik and Ecbert. However Athelstan can already see it will not be long before the scales must tip in one direction or the other. “For now, I will tell Lord Ecbert that you would like to discuss terms.”

The arm around his shoulders tightens its grip. “I don’t want you to return to him.” Ragnar is nothing if not possessive and their long absence from each other has only made him more so.

“If I don’t return, he will think you’ve killed me, and he will kill Rollo.”

For the time being at least, they both have a part they must play.

“I will walk with you, at least.” His eyes shift pointedly in Horik’s direction. He doesn’t trust his king or his men.

“I will be glad for the company.” He feels a peculiar sense of longing as he stands, glancing at the faces of Bjorn and Lagertha. He swallows thickly, a feeling of loss settling into the pit of his stomach. It’s foolish, he knows—he will see them again soon enough. And yet in his life so many farewells have been all too final, or at least stretched on for years on end. There’s something wistful in his smile as Bjorn gives him an affectionate clap on the shoulder. “I will see you soon.”

Perhaps he says it more to convince himself than anything else.

“That you will, priest,” Lagertha confirms. Foolish though it may be, Athelstan finds some comfort in it.

It has become easier to ignore the hostile glares of Floki and those of a like mind. He can see them for what they are—insignificant, really, in the grand scheme of things. He doesn’t need Floki’s approval, nor does he have anything the prove to Horik.

For now, Athelstan leads his horse rather than riding, and Ragnar walks between him and the line of trees to their right. He can hear the faint rustle of branches—they’re being followed. Every now and again, Ragnar turns his head in the direction of the sounds and Athelstan is grateful for the protection. They walk close enough together that it would be near impossible for an arrow to find just one of them until the footsteps trailing them cease.

Ragnar takes hold of the horse’s reins. “You will be safe?”

“Yes,” Athelstan confirms. “I will be safe.”

There’s doubt in Ragnar’s expression as he spots the grimace on Athelstan’s face when he mounts his horse. His grip on the reins tightens as he holds the animal in place. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he simply hands them to Athelstan once he’s settled in the saddle and they part ways once again.

His welcome in Ecbert’s court is little warmer than at the Vikings’ camp. Aethelwulf meets him at the gate, eyes suspicious. “You’ve returned.”

“You sound disappointed,” Athelstan returns dryly.

The prince doesn’t deny it. Still, he places a hand on Athelstan’s back to steady him as he dismounts. Athelstan recognizes the gesture for what it is—Aethelwulf will take care of his father’s pet, even if he doesn’t particularly care for him. And besides, the prince has enough sense to know Athelstan may have information worth hearing. For now, he may be useful.

Neither feigns any real interest in the other and they walk in silence. Athelstan prefers it this way—to pretend is utterly exhausting and he hasn’t the energy for it.

The king is in his chambers.

There’s something softer in his eyes, different from his often calculating stare. He smiles, and yet his face also seems to sag a little at the sight of Athelstan—he recognizes the expression as relief. “It’s good to see you made it back safely. I was beginning to worry.”

Athelstan doesn’t doubt his sincerity.

“It’s as I said. Ragnar wouldn’t hurt me.”

“And have you brought good news?”

“I have.”

“Excellent.” Ecbert claps him on the shoulder. “Come. You’ve had a long ride. We’ll talk over dinner, and you can tell me all about these Northmen.”

Athelstan’s smile falters a moment. “Of course, my lord.”

He will not deceive his king, and yet neither will he betray Ragnar. Carefully, he must tread the line between the two. “Ragnar is an intelligent man. Speak to him as an equal, offer terms that are fair and he will listen to what you have to say.”

“And the men who continued to pillage and kill after we had spoken last? What of them?”

“I cannot speak for Horik,” Athelstan begins. He pauses, considering his words before he speaks. “But Ragnar is beloved by his people and his name carries a great weight in ou—” He cuts himself off, amending, “in their world. And Lagertha likewise is a formidable ally. If you can win them over, Horik will follow. I would not trust him, my lord. But he is no fool and he will see there is no wisdom in turning his allies against him.”

“You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be, my lord.”

“And what is it that Ragnar wants? Truly?”

Athelstan takes his time to formulate his answer. Close as he and Ragnar had become, he would never claim to know everything that goes on in the Viking’s head. “Ragnar cares for his people. He will continue to raid and pillage as long as he sees it as the best way to provide, and if you seek to repel him by force, he will take it as challenge and he will rise to it. If, however, you provide an alternative—offer alliances, and come to an arrangement that can be mutually beneficial—he will gladly listen to what you have to say.”

He recognizes Ecbert’s thoughtful nod as a sign that the king will consider his advice, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief. Athelstan is certain of little these days, but he does know that he has no wish to see Ragnar at war with Wessex.

“Tomorrow, then, some of my men will ride with you to their camp, and we will arrange a meeting.”

Athelstan’s brow furrows. “I must ask once again to go alone. I fear, my lord, that if I arrive in the company of armed men, some among them will take it as a threat. The situation is still precarious, and for now we must tread carefully.”

“I have put you in danger once, Athelstan. I do not wish to do so again. You have become entirely too dear to me.”

“If that is your wish, my lord,” he agrees, sensing the futility of further argument.

He can’t shake a deep sense of unease. Once alone in his chambers, the cross about his neck and the ring on his wrist have both become heavier than either had ever been before. He removes the arm ring and considers it, tracing fingers over the cool metal. He’d thought it lost, and perhaps it would have been easier if it had been.

He has missed Ragnar, perhaps more deeply than he could have realized until he’d seen him again. And yet the words spoken to him in the quiet of the monastery find echo within his soul.

_God has seen fit to call you home_.

But was it not also God’s will that Ragnar had returned to these shores? He wonders whether this is a test or perhaps a sign. Or maybe it’s nothing more than mere coincidence, due to the machinations of man rather than the divine. And be that the case, what does that mean? He closes his eyes and exhales a frustrated breath. “I want to serve You,” he says. “But I am lost and I am torn. I fear I may never again be whole.”

His thoughts are as poor company as they have ever been. There are entirely too many of them, and they chase themselves in circles, raising ever more questions without yielding any answers, and neither will the Lord deign to illuminate the darkness.

Athelstan abandons his quest for sleep and makes his way to Ecbert’s private library. He doubts he will find any clarity amidst the Roman texts, but perhaps if nothing else translation will provide a distraction. He seeks not answers, but rather refuge from the endless questioning that plagues his mind. Perhaps sleeplessness will not serve him well come morning, but he finds the work meditative and far more restful than it would have been to remain in his bed.

As the light of dawn creeps over the horizon, Athelstan is more anxious than he cares to admit to set out for the Vikings’ camp.

Aethelwulf is less eager, but he abides by his father’s wishes. He, like Athelstan, is a familiar face, and one the Vikings know to be too important to kill thoughtlessly. The prince doesn’t trust him, Athelstan knows. Athelstan is unarmed—it’s just as well, even if he had a weapon he doubts he’d be able to use it—but the others with him are not. He understands, but still thinks it unwise. All it takes is for a scout to see a party of armed men and a single arrow is enough to destroy the tentative truce.

Still, he knows better than to voice his concerns. Instead, he rides a little ahead of their small party and keeps an eye and an ear out for possible trouble. His eyes track for movement in the underbrush and he remains tense even as the camp comes into view.

An archer takes aim.

“I bring word from King Ecbert. Ragnar will be expecting me.”

“ _You_ , perhaps. And I see your friends have not come unarmed.”

“What are you saying to them,” Aethelwulf demands.

Athelstan’s eyes don’t leave the bow, still drawn and ready to shoot. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the prince’s hand on the hilt of his sword. He suspects he will die here, yet for now he cannot say whether it will be with an English sword in his back or a Viking arrow in his chest. He can’t speak to both groups at the same time, and where Aethelwulf will take continued conversation in Norse as a sign of betrayal, he knows that switching to English will appear to the Northmen as a signal to attack.

He hopes the prince will stay his blade for just a little longer. Athelstan dismounts his horse. He’s clumsy—most days he can’t even walk without pain—and the way the foot flexes in the stirrup leaves him with an ache that makes him quite graceless. He holds up his hands to show that while his companions may be armed, he holds no weapon. “We have not come to fight.” He glances over his shoulder at Aethelwulf. “Killing the king’s son kills Rollo and ends negotiations before they have even begun.”

Slowly, the archer lowers his bow.

“Please. Get Ragnar, and then we can all talk.”

As the Northman retreats, Aethelwulf’s hand remains on his sword. “What did you tell him, apostate?”

“That it would be ill-advised to kill us, your highness,” Athelstan answers, unable to keep the bite from his tone. “And that he should get Ragnar, so that we can all understand each other.”

“Stay alert,” he advises, as if there is a chance any of them might come away alive if the tentative truce is broken.

He relaxes a little when Ragnar approaches, flanked by Lagertha and Horik. “Priest. You’ve brought friends.” Blue eyes scan the other men, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Still, Athelstan can’t quite suppress a grimace.

“King Ecbert would like to meet with you to discuss terms.” Athelstan switches to English, allowing Ragnar to translate, for Aethelwulf’s benefit more than anything else.

“And yet your king is not among you.” Horik’s eyes are on Athelstan rather than any of the other Saxons.

“He invites you to his villa,” Athelstan explains in English, waiting for Ragnar to translate.

Ragnar speaks, this time directly to Aethelwulf. “We will need some assurance,” he says, “that we will not be killed if we go with you.” Horik’s lips thin as the conversation becomes one he can no longer understand, both sides speaking English. When the prince doesn’t answer, he presses, “You already have my brother. Surely, you understand our desire to balance the scales? We will accompany you and Athelstan back to your court, but the rest of your men will remain here until we return.”

“It’s not an unreasonable request,” Athelstan interjects.

“I have your word they will be unharmed,” Aethelwulf finally relents.

“Of course, provided we return safely.”

“Fine.”

Tension hangs thick in the air as they make ready to leave, but Athelstan is grateful that, if nothing else, hope for peace remains intact. He does his best to hide the difficulty with which he mounts his own horse, unwilling to show Horik that weakness.

Horik and Aethelwulf are not so dissimilar as they might like to claim. Both slow to trust, they bring up the rear, riding side by side, neither willing to expose his back. Athelstan leads, with Ragnar and Lagertha not far behind.

“Has England been everything you imagined it would be,” Ragnar asks.

Athelstan knew this conversation would come—honestly, he was surprised it hadn’t when he’d first arrived to their camp. “In many ways, it has not,” he answers. He heaves a sigh before adding, “And yet, in some ways it is more.”

“How so?”

He glances over his shoulder, back towards the prince. Athelstan chooses to continue their discussion in Norse. “I… It doesn’t feel like home,” he admits. “The people are no longer my own.” Perhaps they never had been. Athelstan doesn’t remember much from before he’d been given to the church. His entire life had structured by the monastery, filled with the companionship of those similarly devoted to the service of the Lord. Perhaps even then the world at large would have felt just as foreign as it does now, albeit a bit less hostile. Either way, he cannot shake the feeling that he does not belong. “And yet, Christ is still my God. He speaks here in a way He never did in Kattegat.”

True, he frequently hears more judgement than pardon of late. But it is still his God, and how long had he _ached_ to hear His voice? It is as if a gaping hole in the depths of his soul has been filled. “I had missed hearing His voice.”

“What does that mean, Priest?” His gaze shifts to the arm ring, still in its place on Athelstan’s wrist. There’s steel in his voice that Athelstan chooses to pretend he doesn’t notice. He knows the question Ragnar meant to ask and he doesn’t have the answer.

“It means,” he answers, brow knitting as he looks away from the Viking, “that my most earnest prayer is that today you and Lord Ecbert will reach an agreement. Perhaps then I may make peace with myself.”

He knows what he wants, and yet he is afraid. As things stand, if he leaves England, he will never return—he can never again set foot in his homeland among hostile forces, axe in hand. Kattegat may have become something more akin to a home to him than Wessex, yet he cannot ignore the ties that bind him there. When he’d first been lost to the Lord, he had been taken by force and had adapted out of necessity. Athelstan did what he must to survive, and perhaps at the time the instinct to live that drove him had helped to numb the pain of that loss.

But now that he has heard Him speak again, can he choose of his own volition to never again stand in the presence of the God he so loves? That he doesn’t yet know the answer shames him.

Athelstan urges his horse on to trot a little ahead of Ragnar.

He doesn’t want to argue now—the royal villa is coming into view, and neither of them can afford to be distracted.

Ecbert comes to the gate to greet them personally. Athelstan can’t miss the glint in Ragnar’s eyes as the king offers a hand to steady him as he dismounts his horse. He is at once grateful for the assistance and set on edge by it. If Ecbert senses the tightness of his back beneath the touch, he ignores it.

As they come to sit at a table, the king places an arm around Athelstan, guiding him to the seat just to his right. A place of honor, perhaps, but he can’t shake the sense that it implies ownership and esteem in equal measure. Ecbert remains standing with a hand on his shoulder as he greets the Vikings in Norse. “It is my privilege to bid you welcome. Athelstan has taught me some of your language, that we might better understand each other.”

“Then you’ve had an excellent teacher.” Ragnar’s eyes are on Athelstan rather than Ecbert and he finds he can barely stand the weight of their scrutiny. Yet, he doesn’t shrink beneath it. Instead, he offers a half-smile.

“Indeed. Nevertheless, I think it best that Athelstan translate for us. I would like for us to be allies, and to that end I would ensure that there is no misunderstanding between us.”

Ecbert gives his shoulder a light squeeze and Athelstan stands beside his king. Athelstan finds that here the kind of contact that had felt so natural and welcome in Ragnar’s camp has become oppressive and heavy. In different company, perhaps it might not have been so objectionable. The discomfort isn’t born of disdain for Ecbert, but Ragnar is a possessive man and Athelstan is painfully aware of how it must appear to him. And yet he will voice no complaint—it is not his place.

For a moment, Athelstan finds the table remarkably interesting, but slowly, he lifts his eyes to regard the three Vikings seated across from him. “Lord Ecbert is prepared to offer five thousand acres of fertile land for farming.” He speaks to Ragnar more than Horik, who he suspects has no more interest in negotiations for peace now than he had when they had seen each other last. If Ragnar and Lagertha are in agreement, Horik will follow out of necessity, but there is little point in trying to convince him of the benefits of this arrangement. “In return, he asks that you cease your raids on his lands and leave his people in peace. Furthermore, the neighboring kingdom of Mercia is torn by civil war. He hopes that some among your men will volunteer to fight on behalf of his friend and ally, Princess Kwenthrith, so she might reclaim her rightful place upon the throne. He is willing to pay a generous fee to all who will assist her efforts.”

“This is what you wanted, is it not?” It’s Ecbert who speaks now. “A better life not just for yourself, but for your people.”

Ragnar’s face is inscrutable. His eyes shift from Ecbert to Athelstan, expression thoughtful. “And what of my brother? I am told he is here, in your court.”

“Perfectly safe, and very well cared for,” Ecbert assures. “And I will, of course, gladly give him over into your care, once you have agreed to my terms.” He gives a wolfish smile that makes Ragnar’s eyes narrow and his lips thin.

“I accept.” Lagertha speaks first. “Ragnar and I have long dreamed of a settlement, and I will be glad to see it become a reality.” She speaks pointedly, for Ragnar’s benefit as much as the king’s. There really isn’t a choice, and so the decision should come easily, and yet Athelstan sees the lines of stubbornness on his brow.

It seems an eternity before he says, “Of course, I also accept.”

Horik’s lips curl in disdain, and yet as predicted, he will relent. “I, too, accept.” There is even less joy in his agreement than there had been in Ragnar’s. And yet, for now at least, it is unimportant. He is powerful, but not so much so that he can afford to betray two earls and a king.

“Excellent!” The king claps Athelstan on the shoulder, something between pride and possession in his smile. “God was generous, indeed, to bring you to us, Athelstan.” His voice has dropped in volume, yet Athelstan sees a dangerous glint in blue eyes and he knows Ragnar must have heard.

He’d like to speak to the Viking, but Ecbert keeps Athelstan close by as they arrange to transport Rollo to camp. It’s a welcome relief that the king chooses not to ride with them, freeing Athelstan from his watchful eyes and lingering touch. True, he has never been treated as a prisoner by his lord, but neither has he been truly free. Perhaps now he can be. He finds the notion perhaps more frightening than he cares to admit. To consider obligation and duty has always come more easily than his own desires.

“Is this who you are,” Ragnar asks as they prepare to leave.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you needed time to think, to decide who you are.” He gestures to Athelstan—the robes of a priest and a cross about his neck, the faithful servant of an English king. “Is this the man you wish to be?”

“Do you think it so simple a question?”

“Is it not?”

For a time, neither man speaks. There is promise in peace, that whichever choice Athelstan will make, he might yet see what he leaves behind again. It isn’t the permanent farewell it could have been, had things gone differently. Still, wherever he goes, there will be a part of his heart that cannot follow.

“I will set sail tomorrow to bring Rollo back to Kattegat. I want you to come back with me.”

“I ask that you wait one more night. And then tomorrow you will have your answer.”

When he is finally able to return to his chambers, Athelstan does not pray. Instead, he thinks. God, for all His infinite wisdom, has not given Athelstan any clarity thus far, and he expects he will find the Lord as mystifying to night as He has always been. He takes off both the crucifix and the arm ring and lays them side by side on his bed. With neither on his person, he feels naked, somehow. And yet also liberated in a way he can’t explain.

It is to be another sleepless night. Sleep will come tomorrow, be it in his bed in Wessex or aboard Ragnar’s boat. Perhaps when it is too late to change his mind he might stop thinking and find some calm.

He takes up the arm ring, tracing fingers over the finely crafted metal. “Please,” he says, exhaling a slow breath. “Do not forsake me again.”

Athelstan sets the ring aside once more and finds himself in the library. This time, however, it is not the Roman texts he seeks. Instead, there is a Bible, tucked in a corner, rightfully hidden away out of sight. The lines of the lettering are crude and clumsy and to describe the illuminations as poor would be generous. Yet it is still legible—at least, it is to those who know what it ought to say. The product of learning to use quill and brush with damaged hands, it is by all accounts a waste of paper and paint, unworthy to bear the Holy Word.

It will not be missed.

He takes it to his room, where he studies the shaky and uneven lines.

“I can’t serve You as I once did.” He’s gotten better, but he still can’t paint the way he had at Lindisfarne. His hands will never work the same again, no matter how he tries to adapt. Athelstan the monk is gone. He has been for quite some time. He appreciates the work Ecbert has given him, but he doubts he will ever find fulfillment in it as he once had. Sometimes, he can almost forget, but more often than not it has felt hollow and futile.

But, neither is he Viking. If he cannot use a brush, then neither, he imagines, can he grip an axe. Nor does he have any desire to do so again. Athelstan the warrior, if he existed at all, died promptly in that very first battle on Wessex’s shores.

It troubles him to find that no matter how his thoughts chase themselves in endless circles, he still can’t say for certain who he is. But if he dares to be honest with himself, he thinks he knows where he would like to be while he sorts the rest of it out.

He places the ring on his wrist and the cross on the table beside his bed. It’s a beautiful piece, delicately crafted and fit for a king. It’s too fine for Athelstan—it makes him long for the simple, pewter cross he’d kept from Lindisfarne. The last piece of his old self he’d managed to preserve, now lost to him. He can’t keep the cross. But the Bible? That, surely, will not be missed. In fact, he doubts anyone will even notice it’s gone.

Decision made, Athelstan leaves the palace for what he is sure will be the last time. It’s cowardly, perhaps, to leave this way, stealing away like a thief in the dead of night. Yet, as he takes his life into his own hands for only the second time in his life, he will not risk Ecbert’s interference.

The moon is already low in the sky and the walk to the camp on foot is long, particularly with his stiff and unsteady gait. By the time he arrives, the first light of dawn has breached the horizon, bathing the world in pink and gold. Perhaps he hasn’t thought this through the way he should have. To most, he is still the king’s man and there is no guarantee his arrival will not be taken as an ambush. Even if it isn’t, there is no love lost between Athelstan and Horik, and perhaps one of the latter’s men will simply see the chance to have him killed and seize it.

Athelstan takes that leap of faith, trusting in Ragnar’s influence to shield him from harm.

There is already movement as Ragnar’s men ready the ships for departure. “Ragnar,” he calls out, steps quickening as he nears the shoreline.

The Northman turns. “Priest. Have you found the answers you sought?”

Athelstan’s lips quirk in a rueful smile. “Yes and no.”

Ragnar snorts. He looks the priest up and down, and then turns back to the ship. “If you’ve something to say, you’d best do it quickly, priest.”

He breathes a sigh. “I’m still not sure I know who I am,” he says. Part of him is still very much lost and adrift. He can see Ragnar’s jaw tighten, his movements more forceful than necessary as he loads the boat. “But, I know who I am not, and I think perhaps that is more important.”

Ragnar still doesn’t stop to look at him again. At least, not until Athelstan puts a hand on his shoulder. “It occurs to me,” he continues, “that if I’ve not yet found my answers here, perhaps this isn’t the place I’m meant to look. I’d like to come back to Kattegat.”

Finally, the Northman turns back to him. The glimmer in his eyes brings a bright smile to Athelstan’s face. “Well, then, make yourself useful, priest! There’s work to be done, and I’d like to leave while the tides are in our favor. Unless you’ve forgotten how to tie a good knot?” There’s mischief in his voice that Athelstan has dearly missed.

He returns it in kind. “I’d think it foolish to trust me with the task.” He stands back and gestures for Ragnar to continue. “I will watch, and perhaps the next voyage you’ll find me more qualified.”

Ragnar laughs, loud and genuine. “I have missed you, priest.”

The waters are rough and the voyage wet. Athelstan’s robes are quickly soaked, and yet he finds he doesn’t mind it so very much. There’s something refreshing in the scent of salt in the air and the sound of the waves as they lap at the boat. Perhaps it’s here, in the open expanse of the sea between the two worlds, that he truly belongs. If nothing else, it’s here he thinks he knows what freedom really is.

Nevertheless, as the port of Kattegat comes into view, he rushes to the front of the boat. He leans over the edge, grinning into the spray of the fjord. As Ragnar’s arm wraps around his shoulders, he breathes in the scent of the air, rapt eyes fixed upon the growing shore.

His voice is hushed as he breathes a word that sounds very much like, “Beautiful.”


End file.
